The first declaration I got from a diabetic on the disease itself was that I would soon forget about it. We’d been put in touch to discuss our mutually failed organ – namely, so I could ask him about how to handle my new life without a working pancreas, and he could tell me it was all going to be OK. His email was so earnest and enthusiastic, and his insistence that I would be just fine fine fine so unwavering that I hated it, and him, immediately.

This was not his fault.

November 1 was the first day of Diabetes Awareness month. I didn’t know this was a thing until a few weeks ago, and I didn’t know I would actually care until it arrived.  I combed Twitter for celebrities saying important things or someone to whom I could pitch an Important essay, or a way to become famous for being diabetic. Soon after I tired of the hashtags and the choreographed dances to raise public awareness. I closed all the tabs with a sour look on my face. Sometimes I want to shove my reality to the front of the line at the precise moment I want to appear serene and poised. I want everyone to know how serious it is and I want to act as though nothing’s the matter. I want medical attention at my immediate disposal, and I want to never feel pain again.

“Someday you’ll forget you even have it.”

Probably not. But you might.